


Cold Pressing AU: Base Chapter 2

by Alex_Quine



Series: Cold Pressing AU [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Mpreg, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 12:15:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2732144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex_Quine/pseuds/Alex_Quine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir returns to Minas Tirith, seven years late and not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Pressing AU: Base Chapter 2

In the event it was some weeks before they finally left the mill. Boromir had refused to go before he found other hands to help Nan and work the millstone. They took in a stolid young man, thought a mite slow by his family, but Boromir found him kind and careful, and Redlin blossomed with the weight of the tasks set upon him. Boromir’s education of the lad was then distracted by the regular stream of visitors who had arrived to see the hero come back from the dead, until they had to spend the gold coin on food and Nan kept up a steady supply of baking from the iron griddle and ale cooling in jugs in the mill leat.  
  
The first party had come from Ithilien within a few hours of the King’s departure. The sound of a horn announced Prince Faramir with escort, who swept into the yard and wheeled to a ragged halt. Boromir came out of the mill to see his brother vault down and the two men disappeared into the house for fully three hours, at the end of which Faramir emerged looking thoughtful, followed by Boromir with Arin perched on his right hip, who leaned over and wrapped his thin arms around his uncle’s neck. Faramir gazed into the child’s eyes, kissed his forehead and turned gently away. 

The next day, a patrol on its way back to Minas Tirith stopped by to water their mounts and Beregond gripped his old friend by the shoulders and drew him close. A young recruit tasked with holding Beregond’s horse went to smile behind his glove at his captain’s rough tears and was soundly cuffed around the head by a misty-eyed veteran sat behind him. 

And then there was a steady procession of court officials, old acquaintances or the curious who came to gawp and got in Nan’s way, until she threatened to turn out one party at the end of a broom. 

Arin was alternately wildly excited and bewildered by events and having almost come to grief under the heels of more horses than the yard could easily accommodate, was told firmly to play either in the hay loft or the small vegetable garden across the stream, unless expressly called for. 

As the day for departure approached, Boromir became more and more taciturn, so that Redlin began to fumble his work and Arin’s usual energy seemed to drain away, leaving him quiet and sullen. It was when Nan pointed out to him brusquely the way his humour was impacting on the house that he finally looked down to her and said. “It’s time, Nan.” They were stood in the scullery and she laid a wrinkled hand on his arm, saying, “Have faith, my lord. The boy draws love to him wherever he goes – true-silver, he is.” 

Boromir had refused an official escort for the journey, but the King had sent a groom with a fine riding horse and a couple of pack animals, one of which carried a parcel of raiment, with a brief message begging Boromir to accept ‘some clothes which might be better suited for travelling than your own.’ ‘Are we then to be your pensioners, Aragorn?’ the man thought, but relished the feel of fine linen and rich velvet against his skin. There were clothes for Arin too and a full purse for Nan with a note, the contents of which she kept secret. 

They were gathering the possessions that would trouble the packhorses little, when Nan caught at Boromir’s arm, a small cloth-wrapped bundle in her hand. She began to speak, then pressed her lips firmly together and Boromir thought that he had never seen her at a loss for words before.  
“Nan?”  
“Here,” she looked up at him with a mother’s love for all the tall sons who had never been blessed to her, saying, “I’ve packed you the last of our honey.” Boromir’s breath stilled and his eyes grew dark, but he did not turn away. “There’s also a little packet of chasteberries, Monk’s Pepper. You should chew on a few each day. My lord Boromir…they say there are great healers in Minas Tirith…” Then words failed her and she whisked out of sight, leaving him silent, surrounded by bundles. 

In the morning, the groom loaded the horses and waited, whilst Arin clung to Nan’s skirts and Boromir repeated sage advice to Redlin, who nodded patiently, giving every appearance of hearing it for the first time, although he knew all by heart. 

Boromir approached the tall bay horse. It was many years since he had ridden a fine animal and part of him wished that Aragorn had found some quiet old hack for their journey. Then Nan came out of the house carrying a soft sheepskin to fold over the saddle and Boromir cautiously mounted, calming the sidling beast with a practised hand. The groom lifted Arin up in front of him and went to collect his own string. With Arin’s promises to ‘come and visit soon’ and a last, brief smile from his father, the little party turned out of the yard. Redlin shouted ‘Safe journey!” whilst Nan caught up her apron to stuff the corner into her mouth to smother the sobs and waved. 

For the first few hours Arin had been amazed by every new sight, wanting explanations for everything, until his father had been tempted to pack him into one of the panniers. When the child eventually fell asleep, it was with relief that Boromir wrapped Arin close within his cloaked arm and closed his heels on the horse’s flanks letting him canter on. The road was lightly travelled at this point, allowing them to make good time and without the need to voice his every thought for his son, Boromir could let the memories of each familiar place flow over him, bringing back another world and what seemed like another man. 

That evening they stopped at an inn and Boromir kept to their apartments, preferring to watch over Arin, asleep on one side of the great bed, to venturing down into a noisy taproom. 

They pressed on the next day, despite the growing traffic on the road and even Arin’s voice was stilled by the sight of Minas Tirith, glowing rose red in the setting sun, as they slowed to a walk amidst the press of folk seeking entry to the city before the gates closed for the night. Boromir had raised the hood of his cloak to hide his face and concentrated on guiding the horse up the smooth paved avenues, letting the groom go on ahead of them at each gate to show the papers he carried for the travellers. 

When they entered into the palace stable yard, an official of the household helped Arin down. They would see the King at the morning meal, but for now he was here to usher them to their rooms and ensure that they had everything they needed. 

They were following the man down a long corridor, Boromir with one hand on Arin’s shoulder to guide the boy, who was overawed by the place and showing signs of wanting to hang back. Boromir had wondered where they would be housed and recognised the apartments as having belonged to one of his father’s advisors, but now the doors bore his brother’s cipher. 

“The Prince Faramir hopes that you will be comfortable and looks forward to greeting you on the morrow.” The official bowed himself out and the groom laid their shabby bundles down on the marble floor of the antechamber. 

Boromir and Arin explored the apartments in the fading light and finally settled on a modest room, which had a bed large enough to let Arin snuggle into his father’s embrace and a garderobe and bathing room off.

They were just beginning to unpack when the official returned with servants bearing supper and hot water for the tub. A fire was lit in the grate, the lamps set fair and once they were alone again, Boromir was able to get Arin fed, washed and into the bed, where he fell asleep almost immediately. 

Boromir took his time over his own bathing, soaking aching muscles. He could see Arin through the open doorway and his determination to try to build something good here for the child grew, although his heart sank at the task facing him. Once out of the bath, he dried himself carefully with the towels provided and went in search of Nan’s precious pot of honey. 

As he ministered to his body, his mind wandered to the Houses of Healing, but the thought of explaining all, facing blank faces, even worse, pity, thrust that idea to the back of his mind again. He would deal with this himself as he had done before. 

When he finally roused Arin the next morning, the remains of the supper had already been cleared away and fresh clothing was laid out. Arin was coming to regard these frequent changes of raiment with suspicion, preferring the comfort of his worn things from home, and rather than provoke childish tears, Boromir unpacked a clean shirt and breeches from their bundles. 

Boromir, however, would put on the proffered clothes. No matter if they proclaimed his new and diminished status to general view, he was Elessar’s man in all things, but even as he shook out the tunic, Boromir realised with aching throat that the garments were his own, carefully pressed and smelling of cedar from some chest where they must have been laid aside. They felt loose on him, where he had lost the bulk of muscle that weapons training and high feeding could bring. The labour in the mill had been matched by a plain man’s fare, and the constant worrying of his flesh with pain kept him thin, but the familiar cloth was welcome nevertheless as connecting him again to this place. 

The great hall used for dining was almost deserted when Boromir stepped through the doorway, leading Arin by the hand. At a long table by the fireplace Aragorn sat with a cluster of advisors. 

Boromir paced the length of the hall and as he came to face Aragorn, he knelt and Arin with him, bowing his head, saying, “Sire, I, Boromir, son of Denethor, formerly Steward in this House, am come with my son Arin, to serve you as you see fit - as bondsman or freeman or slave – for King and for Gondor.” 

This was not what Aragorn had been expecting and a slight frown creased his forehead, but he believed that he could understand the painful position in which Boromir found himself – literally out of his time, his place filled up – and he did not wish to diminish the gesture, for the man he remembered was proud. He stood and placed a hand on Boromir’s head, saying “Boromir of Gondor, I, Elessar Telcontar, King of Arnor and Gondor, acknowledge your service as your liege lord, but also welcome you as an old and valued servant to Gondor and a friend from days past. You and your son are come home as free men and Gondor rejoices.” Then he raised Boromir up amidst a scattering of applause from those in the room, and before the other man could demur, swept him into a bear hug, almost taking him off his feet. 

As Aragorn set him down again, with the wide smile that Boromir thought could light Moria’s depths, his own involuntary grin brought back to the King the man he remembered so sweetly. Then Aragorn scooped up Arin and setting him on a bench called over servants to find food for the child, food for his friend and more food for himself.  
“Second breakfast, Sire?” said Boromir shyly, which made Aragorn bellow with laughter and clap him on the shoulder.  
  


When they had eaten, Aragorn led them to a courtyard garden that Boromir remembered as a favourite haunt of his mother. It had been neglected and overgrown when he had last seen it, but now all was lush and ordered. Arwen sat with her ladies and the child Eldarion on the grass and when Boromir and Arin had made their bows to her, she beckoned Arin to her side with some tale and let the men wander off along the cinder path for she rightly judged that they needed to talk. 

Aragorn wanted Boromir to take up the place at his right hand that he had planned for him, but now recognised that to overwhelm the man so soon with expectations would alarm him. Better by far to get him and the boy clasped into their settings first. They stood beside a small wall fountain that poured into a stone jug and then overflowed into a wide basin, listening to the peaceful trickle of the water and the distant sounds of the city. 

“Faramir will be arriving soon,” Aragorn said, trailing his fingers in the basin. “He wants to begin to sort out your affairs and I admit I will be glad to see the great house opened again.” Boromir looked quizzically at him. “Faramir did not tell you? Denethor left you all, including the house on the Sixth Level and the estates beyond Harlond.”

Boromir sat down slowly on the bench beside the fountain.

Aragorn continued. “Faramir could have taken over the property at any time through the last seven years, but he would not do it – and I don’t believe it was simply because of the way that he and his father parted. I believe he hoped, perhaps he knew, that you were alive. Faramir has lands of his own in plenty now. I was glad to gift them for his service, but he has had no time to see to the Harlond estates and I believe they suffered much during the wars, so your inheritance is like to be in sore need of some attention.”

He looked down the path to where Arin was walking backwards slowly guiding some of Eldarion’s first wavering steps. “Has the boy had much schooling?”

Boromir’s attention was jerked back to his son and he grimaced. “Sadly no. That is one reason why we are come. He must learn his letters.”

“And more if he is to be a credit to your house – although,” said Aragorn sweetly, “your name has been somewhat blackened of late amongst the schoolchildren of Minas Tirith…”  
“…and why might that be?”  
“They have had a holiday on your birthday – in remembrance.”  
“Ah. Might a humble servant beg the continuance of that generous custom on the occasion of…of…”  
“A day to celebrate all those who have returned home?”  
Boromir looked now into the eyes of his King, the crowned ruler, where before he had known only the uncrowned heir, groping uncertainly along his chosen path, and silently he re-dedicated his life to the man before him. 

“Come, I can see that Arwen wants to talk with you and I haven’t kissed my son yet today.” Aragorn strode off down the path and Boromir, trailing after him, watched as the King picked up Eldarion unceremoniously and began to swing him around by one arm and a leg. Arin stood gazing up at Aragorn and when the King turned Eldarion upside down and began to tickle him, as the child gurgled happily, Arin clapped and joined in the general laughter. 

“Somehow, he never makes the child sick.” Arwen beckoned to Boromir to sit beside her and began to question him gently about his life at the mill, all the while studying his face. She could see there was great pain in his eyes and adjudged it a physical hurt. He was struggling with high emotions, but the source of the pain was unclear to her.

Arwen was poised to ask the first question about Arin’s mother when a burst of clapping from her ladies caused her to look away. Eldarion was rolling head over heels on the grass and hence the applause, but beyond him Aragorn had taken Arin up onto his hip and was explaining something, the two dark heads together. 

Arwen paused and beside her Boromir felt the breath knocked from his chest. When she looked back, he seemed grey and a faint shiver passed across his sad face. Arwen held his gaze and said “My lord, will you come to me later?” He nodded dumbly and watched her rise and go to the young prince, guiding his stumbling steps towards his father and Arin.

When Aragorn set Arin down to reach for Eldarion and Arwen offered a hand to Arin, Boromir thought for a moment that his heart would shatter with fear for his son, but she simply pointed him towards Boromir and Arin came running across, full of a tangled story about a King who’d kept fish in the fountain. 

The party broke up and Boromir and Arin returned to the apartment, but it was not long before there was a knock at the door and the wood elf appeared with an offer to take Arin down to the stables to see the grey again. Boromir agreed to Arin’s pleadings, although with cold dread prickling at his spine and was unsurprised that they had hardly left when one of Arwen’s ladies arrived to take him to the Queen. 

The Queen’s Bower was a light, airy tracery of silver stone and pale wood very different from the heavy grandeur of much of the palace and although it had glorious views across the country on three sides, it was not a place that he knew well. His mother had refused to use the room, although Denethor urged her to make it her own, preferring a small parlour lower down with a single window facing the sea. 

Now the chamber was filled with colour and life and as Boromir entered Arwen motioned her women to take Eldarion to the adjacent nursery and leave them alone. He stood before her, full in the knowledge that Arin’s life currently lay in the hands of an elf, probably an ally of the Queen. He also remembered that he had sworn fealty to his King and here stood that man’s chosen mate who should surely also have claim on his loyalty, even to his life…but not Arin’s life. 

“They are really very alike, once you see them together.” Her gaze was keen and at that moment he thought she resembled Galadriel, “and at first I imagined you a guardian to the child, keeping him hidden until Aragorn should send for him. But this is not so.” 

Arwen reached out to touch his cheek and then flinched, drawing her hand back as though his skin had burnt.  
“So, we were both of us changed to be with him, but you I think, Boromir of Gondor, have had a harder road and suffer more.”  
“I sacrificed less, lady, for it came upon me unbidden.” 

He needed her to understand the scope of his desires at that moment and stood his ground, meeting her gaze firmly. “The King does not know of his child and neither does Arin know of his parentage. They will not willingly hear it from me, and I have no ambitions for my son beyond what I can make for him. So I am come back to a world that was satisfied it had put a suitable, ceremonious, end to my existence and could move forward, remembering me as a old tale, rather than as a man with a man’s faults. And having returned to disturb the peace of folk who did not think to see me again, I find that I have an inheritance from my father which, given work, may make Arin secure, so here I would stay - and I have offered my service to my King.” 

Arwen turned away to sit on a long bench and patted the seat beside her. He followed her, wondering at the gentle sweetness of her smile. “I know that you seek no throne for Arin. You and your son are no threat to me and mine, but you are mistaken on one point, Lord Boromir, there are people who have never ceased to yearn to see you again in life - and your service to your King is most welcome. He lacks…friends.” And at that, Arwen changed the subject and they spoke mostly of their children. The Queen drew from him the tale of his survival after Amon Hen up until Arin’s birth and she was thoughtful for several hours after he left, so that her women went quiet about their business for the rest of the day. 

Faramir had arrived for the noon meal and with the addition of Legolas they were a cheerful party who lingered over wine and fruit, watching Arin’s first shy attempts at joining in with the games being played in and out of the long tables by the children of the household. “Don’t fret, brother,” said Faramir laughing at his efforts not to look as anxious as he felt. “Beregond’s girls have him in hand now – although you should know that if young Elen sets her cap at him, his fate is sealed for evermore.” 

All through that afternoon the brothers sat and wrestled with the complexities of Denethor’s estate. Faramir was clear about wishing to take merely a few tokens in remembrance of their mother against any daughters he might have, whilst Boromir baulked at accepting from his brother’s hand what seemed, regardless of the condition of the estates, like vast riches. He had never, even when their father was alive, been much concerned with the trappings of wealth, but Faramir gradually helped him to see that he represented hope for the people living on the old estates, that someone would be concerned solely with their livings and prosperity. 

The great house on the Sixth Level was another bone of contention. Denethor had rarely used it, preferring to occupy the Steward’s suite in the palace, so that it had been shut up for many years. Boromir had cold memories of high, marble halls, but as Faramir pointed out he had been a very small boy then. Boromir suggested selling it, but Faramir was adamant. Boromir was the eldest son and this was the family home. Their ancestors’ names were carved around the banqueting rooms and, sadly, this was one more burden that his brother must take up. 

Eventually, he had agreed to take a look at it and was not wholly surprised when Faramir produced the keys from his pocket. Having stood for a few moments before the very formal frontage, the brothers entered through a side door and walked together along dusty hallways, peering into empty chambers, trying to dredge up shared memories of the place. It was by no means as forbidding as Boromir remembered it – large and bare certainly, but the afternoon sun flooded in through every shutter they opened and on one of the upper floors he was suddenly struck by the image of children riding imaginary horses along the wide corridors.

So Boromir of Gondor came again into his own. He rode and walked through his southern estates and saw half-ruined villages, neglected farms and everywhere work to be done.  The great house attracted to it former family servants scattered through Minas Tirith and he pensioned off those past work, paid off those he remembered and did not trust and welcomed back to his service some fifty family retainers that he scattered through his holdings to begin the work of rebuilding. The house was scoured from top to bottom, simple furnishings found, many of them packed away in crates in the cellars and when he and Arin were ready to move into it, he held a hearth-warming and stood with his guests in one of the smaller dining rooms, toasting the new fire with ale and listening to the children running riot on the upper floors. 

He filled his days with purpose, watched Arin begin to find friends of his own age and thought himself blessed for the most part. However, Boromir also went regularly to council the King and his ministers, usually on some topic to do with the defence of Gondor, and amidst the discussions, Boromir came to see the truth of Arwen’s words, that Aragorn had few friends on whom he could rely for entirely disinterested advice, or simply for a friend’s conversation, the warmth of a friend’s embrace. 

He began to be uneasy at the extent to which Aragorn worked and in his brief leisure hours the extent to which he drank. His laughter seemed forced and with Faramir in Ithilien and Legolas frequently gone, the man who had once been a free Ranger, often alone but never lonely, looked more and more a trapped soul, weighed down by duty and surrounded by empty smiles. He seemed most at ease with his family and clearly loved his Queen and his son deeply, but there was a ragged hole at his centre and Boromir realised with shock that the fire that had gone from his Ranger’s eyes was passion. 

And now began their slow circle. They rode, fished, played chess and read aloud to one another. They talked for hours, and argued, on topics both wide ranging and close to home, although there were some things their conversations never touched on. They did not speak of the days in Lothlorien and Aragorn had never asked what had happened after Amon Hen. Often it seemed as though the King would have reached out to him and often and aye Boromir’s heart ached to respond, but he dared not and would draw back, turning the thing to a jest and Aragorn would smile sadly. But it was becoming harder to ignore. 

And then the unthinkable happened. He had been pre-occupied with work on the estates, a report on training for the White Guard and Arin had needed much care to get him through his first weeks of formal schooling and Boromir had put his hand to Nan’s packet of Monk’s Pepper one morning and found it almost empty. Two small dried berries lay in his hand and he tried to calm the roiling in his stomach, that he might not waste these two, before he chewed on them with a dry mouth. That day he had gone down into the town, endured curious looks in the apothecaries he had tried, but none had the berries for sale. Time-and-again he was told to seek the Houses of Healing, but his mind was set against it and that night, for want of the drugs he downed a quantity of ale that almost sickened him and left him barely able to crawl to his bed.  
  


The next morning had seen him aching and dizzy and he had crept through the day keeping himself to solitary tasks. The servants had judged his mood and ghosted quiet through the house and even Arin had drawn back from him and chosen to forego his tale before bed. 

The two days after were almost peaceful and Boromir seemed to regain some of his composure, but he was still subdued, working steadily through a large pile of papers relating to estate repairs. He had almost stopped eating, but drank ale and mead of an evening. 

The following morning found him on his knees by his bed and it was only after plunging his shaking frame into a tub of cold water that he’d been able to face the day, where his mood was taciturn. Into this dark world came a note from the King requesting that he attend a meeting of the Privy Council and so Boromir trod the steps up to the palace with a heavier heart than had been his lot since he and Arin had arrived. 

The meeting was long but fruitful, although Boromir was aware that Aragorn seemed distracted, taking longer over decisions than was his wont. As the advisors filed out after the business was done, Aragorn turned and caught at his hand. “Will you stay and take supper with me? Eldarion is troubled with a chill, so I am turned out of Arwen’s favour and must dine alone.” Then as Boromir hesitated, he said humbly, “I do not command.”

Boromir could not resist the pleading he saw in Aragorn’s eyes and smiled warmly at him. “I would like that above all things, my lord. I will send to the house and say where I am.”

“Oh, I will have you back to them before Arin’s bedtime.” And Boromir saw the warm light come into his lord’s eyes and quietly despaired. 

They were served supper in a small study off the library that Aragorn often used, sat either side of a table in front of the fire. They spoke of the day’s business and of some idea that Faramir had for irrigation. Then the meal was cleared, wine, dried fruits and pipeweed set out, and both men filled pipes and put their feet up on the fender, letting the cares of the day flow from them. Aragorn asked after the Harlond estates and Boromir told him about his plans to replant the orchards that had once been the glory of the countryside for miles around. The invading Corsairs had left enough of the old, knarled trees, unsuitable for timber props, that there were some of all the old varieties good for grafting. Aragorn nodded in agreement, but Boromir knew that he had lost his attention, that something else was beginning to absorb the Ranger, and he thought he could feel a bead of sweat begin to trickle down his lower back. 

Aragorn leant forward to tap the ash from his pipe into the fire and then twisted to look upwards at Boromir. The other man saw reflected before him all the want in his own soul, all the lonely hunger that could not be assuaged and his breath came short. Aragorn reached for his wrist and held it lightly, his thumb rubbing across the place where Boromir’s heart beat hard. Then he turned the hand up and his lips brushed the same soft place. His eyes never left Boromir’s face, who answered with an agonised whisper,

“Sire…this is not…I cannot…” and then Aragorn saw the very blood drain from his face and Boromir wrenched his hand away, crying “There is no help for me!” and he lurched to his feet and stumbled away into the next room, throwing the door closed behind him. 

Above the crackle of the logs in the grate, Aragorn could hear moaning, as of a wild creature caught in a trap, behind the door and hammered on it. When no answer came, he entered and found Boromir kneeling on the floor, rocking back and forth, arms wrapped around himself. As Aragorn went to raise him, he saw his eyes were dark with pain and as he caught the man to him, Boromir groaned and fainted. 

Aragorn did not stop to summon help. He began to walk swiftly down the corridor, carrying Boromir, thinking ‘You are too light, friend. You have not been eating.’ He roared a warning to the guard at the first door he came to, who swung it open and then hurried before him through the palace, flinging aside barriers, and down the rock-cut steps through the curtain wall to the rear entrance of the Houses of Healing. 

An experienced physician, Celond, was waiting for them and as Aragorn manoeuvred his burden through the door, he directed them into a small room with a wide bench on which they laid him. Celond thumbed back his eyelids and then broke a small glass vial beneath his nose, which filled the air with a camphor smell and had Boromir choking and spluttering as he regained consciousness. 

Aragorn was leaning against the wall catching his breath and when Boromir would have tried to rise, snarled “Be still, Boromir! Your King commands!”  
Boromir slumped back and gradually his breathing eased and it seemed he had become resigned to being cared for.   Celond was quiet and neat in his movements, gathering an assortment of salves and oils, whilst an assistant entered with a basin of water that steamed and a bundle of clean linen strips.

Celond glanced at the King and then to Boromir, asking “Do you wish us to be private?” but Aragorn was planted, arms folded across his chest, immovable, and Boromir, although he glanced at him, made no murmur.  
Celond began by studying his patient’s breathing, fingers pressed lightly to his throat. His voice was cool and questioning.  
“I understand that the King found you in distress and you fainted. Are you in pain my lord?”  
Boromir struggled to answer until he heard Aragorn’s voice behind him softly pleading, “Please Boromir. Answer him…for me.”  
“Great pain, so that it takes my breath on occasion.”  
“Is this something new, or is it of long-standing?”  
“I have lived with this for many months.” Behind him, Aragorn’s breath came with a hiss and Boromir tensed, but Celond’s cool fingers on his face distracted him and when he looked into the Healer’s eyes, he saw great calm.  
“There are old hurts here, my lord, that can be easily seen. The scars on your face - do you care for them?”  
“I use a salve of beeswax to try to keep the skin soft.” The Healer nodded.  
“I will give you an oil. It has lavender, sage and mugwort, also calendula. In time the scars will pale, but they will never completely heal.”  
Boromir ran his hand lightly down his cheek. “I did not expect it and these do well as against the other places. I do not know if it is the clothing that chafes and keeps them bloody.” 

The Healer and his assistant helped him slowly out of his shirt and breeches to reveal a patchwork of linen strips down one side of him. Celond sniffed the air cautiously.  
“Have you received medicines for your wounds, my lord?”  
“I have been using honey.”  
“If I may, Lord Boromir.” Boromir nodded and Celond began to unwrap him slowly, wetting any linens that stuck to him. 

Aragorn leaded forward, looking closely at the first runnels revealed on his breast.  
“These look like teeth and claw marks.” 

Boromir winced as the healer peeled the sticky linen strips from his side. “Crossing the borders of Ithilien…we stumbled upon a Warg den with a litter of half-grown pups. They were on me too quickly and I needed to get Arin out of there before the mother returned.” He was breathing hard, sweat running on his face with the effort not to cry out. “We reached a settlement where they righted me as best they could.” 

By now the Healer had reached a swathe of honeyed linen covering his groin, which showed some dark staining at the lower edges. Taking time to soak the cloth with warm water, he began to peel back the covering on a ruin barely healed. One side of the scrotal sack was torn away completely. The testicle was gone and the edges of the torn skin were gathered in a knotted mass of purple scar tissue that seemed to wrap around under the cock. For a long moment the room was quiet.  
The Healer spoke sadly. “They were willing, my lord, but not skilled.” And he laid gentle fingers on Boromir’s groin, at which the man arched off the bench, gasping.  
“There is some burnt flesh here.”  
“I did that with a knife to stem the bleeding.” 

Celond nodded and prodded further, saying “They should have bound you flat up against your stomach whilst you healed, so that the scar would not thicken and gather too tight. As it is, you are tied down…” his fingers stilled, “and every movement must be an agony.” 

“It tears open too often.” Boromir looked at the wall ahead and his voice roughened. “I dare not grow hard, so I chew on chasteberries, Monk’s Pepper, to keep my flesh quiet, but I used the last of my store four days ago.”  
Aragorn felt a heat come into his cheeks. He did not make a move, nor seek to meet Boromir’s gaze, but watched the healer’s delicate touch as he explored further, finally asking “Can anything be done?”  
“When did this happen my lord?”  
“Near two years ago.”  
“That may be recent enough to try something. The flesh bleeds, tears and re-heals, but there is no infection here. The honey has kept the wounds sweet.” 

Celond beckoned the assistant forward for instructions. The man left and returned a few minutes later with a clay pot and a small kettle, during which time Celond had cleaned the old sticky residue from Boromir’s body with gentle hands. He began to mix honey from the jar with water from the kettle and to dip new strips of linen into the mixture.  
  


“This is the palest honey Gondor makes and it is the best, but we find that adding a very little boiled water helps the honey in its work – and makes the cloths easier to remove when need be.” The healers worked steadily re-covering his wounds. “I understand,” added Celond, “that you have been working in a mill. A period of rest with gentle exercise, might help to heal some of the hurts. You can come here each day to be treated with the oil I spoke of. We will also deal with the honey bandages for you, and I will consult with my fellows to decide how best we might help further.”

Boromir bowed his head and swallowed down painful tears. To have someone else carry this burden, even for a moment, felt like a rare gift of peace.  Aragorn helped him dress, gentle hands supporting but avoiding every suggestion of a caress. As they went to leave, the Healer lifted a small glass to his lips. Boromir swallowed the draught and found a metal flask pressed into his hand. “This is a distillation of the chasteberries, my lord. Three drops in water every day will keep you in comfort for the time being.” 

As they stepped out into the street, Aragorn took Boromir’s arm lightly and together they walked to the house. Seeing the porter waiting for him with the door open, Boromir said “Will you take a cup of wine, Sire, before returning?” Aragorn answered “Aye, I will.” Together they walked slowly into the house as though wandering in from an evening stroll to view the night sky and Boromir led them to the Library, where a jug of wine and cups sat in readiness for any casual guest. Once alone, Aragorn waved him to a chair and poured them both wine. He set Boromir’s cup beside him and retreated to stand gazing into the empty fireplace. 

Boromir slumped on the arm of the chair, his hand shading his face, but eventually pride conquered him and he raised his eyes to look at Aragorn’s rigid back, saying simply, “I could not tell you. I could not find the words. And I did not think that after seven years...” 

Aragorn’s turned to him then and Boromir saw his eyes. “I have hurt you and I cannot hold you to soothe the hurt away, but know that there has not been a day in seven years when you have not walked with me.” So saying Aragorn laid his cup down and strode from the room. 

As he crossed the hall a movement from above drew his eye to Arin in his nightshirt, peering down through the balustrade. The sound of the library door behind him announced Boromir’s presence in the hall and his soft chiding of the boy, “You should be in bed, little man. I will come up to you soon…” allowed Aragorn time to gather himself and to turn to Boromir with more confidence than he felt. He laid a hand on Boromir’s shoulder saying, “Friend, I will see you on the morrow.” And Boromir answered him softly, “Friend, I will be there.”

 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Notes: This story has been edited from its first posting. It was originally written with two endings. The Cold Pressing AU emerges out of Pathway 1. The alternative ending/chapter is available for anyone interested at alex-quine.livejournal.com by going to the Profile page and linking to the Fic Index.


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